Balance
I love riding with my hands
off the handlebars, leaning back,
steering with my you-know-what,
upright, not ducking, riding tall,
taking up my space.
You tell me to be careful.
I tell you I am safe.
This is so easy to do.
I’ve been doing this since first grade.
It’s all about balance, about freedom.
I am fine. I know what I am doing here.
Still, you are afraid for me.
In these late summer days,
acorns and beechnuts get pounded
to a pulp on the roads.
It’s a soapy, slippery mush after rains.
This is normal here—just wait
until yellow, red, and brown leaves
are added to the mix, and larch needles
fill up the space between my tires and my mudguards.
You tell me to be careful.
I tell you I am safe.
This is so easy to do.
I’ve been doing this since first grade.
It’s all about balance, about freedom.
I am fine. I know what I am doing here.
Still, you are afraid for me.
My bike is not an assault rifle—
the one you carry to keep us safe.
My life is not on the line.
My balance keeps me safe.
Yeah, I know—you tell me
because I put my life on the line each day.
I need you to be safe.
And here you have upended the balance.
Soldier, I need you to be safe.
Fuel for a Flaming Star
He sang about a flaming star,
longing, longing, longing,
stars burning, burning, burning.
I saw those stars this summer,
in the desert overhead at night.
They weren’t hot
like the days here were.
I wondered how people
lived in this heat before,
without AC.
Here, only the antelope squirrels
seemed to thrive
and move.
That blanket full of flaming stars
spoke of hope, of dreams, of love.
In my texts, another flaming star—
from Texas—dropped,
rhyming morning messages,
lamenting pleas
for support.
How could I refuse?
Stars need fuel to shine.
Without Training Wheels
On the edge of the ravine,
between this life and the next,
seesawing on a horse named Marty—
wild, twitching head, afraid of flies, Marty—
reins running through my hands,
losing touch with life
as I know it.
Fearful heart, the kick in the stomach,
looking ahead, not down,
breathing out,
while behind me, the wrangler calls out,
“You’re doing fine, keep going!”
What a parable.
Good God, why
do these offers drop—
midlife crisis offers—
for a life I never got to lead,
of dreams I never thought I had,
leading to tears I never thought I’d shed?
One offer dropped in April.
One offer dropped in July.
What’s wrong with these people,
uprooting me, upsetting me?
I am hanging on to the reins
with my life bucking underneath me,
trying to stay on this side of the ravine
before making the jump,
tears streaming down my cheeks.
What are these men doing to me
and my equilibrium,
making me feel five again,
learning to ride
without training wheels?
Not Blinking First
When they see me coming,
most of them wing it—
low over the land,
taking flight
over the grassy meadow.
Two crows wait
on the dirt road,
as if to say, Come on—
cheeky teenagers,
seemingly unimpressed
by grown-ups.
They take flight
as I draw level,
saying to their brothers,
See how unafraid we are.
They are like the group
of lanky teenagers
that stood on the bike path
at the secondary school—
boys challenging me to
blink first.
I did not.
They jumped—out of my way.
Laughed.
I wish I had their courage
to stand in the path—of others.
